It’s been a long time guys. I mean, who wants to see a boring update post every week? I’d rather read a compelling post about vulvo-vaginal surgery. Happy new year!!

Frustrated with the lack of credible information available, and the insane amount of misinformation out there, I’m going to change all of that and talk to you about my Batholin’s abcess. It and I parted some months ago in a rather dramatic way. Ladies and gents, it was a frustrating process. If this doesn’t interest you, no one is forcing you to read it.

For those of you unfamiliar with Bartholin’s glands, let me enlighten you. Bartholin [BAHR-toe-lin] (Full name: Caspar Bartholin the Younger …I know) was a Danish anatomist who first described the “Bartholin’s gland” in the 17th century. Why he would name such an intimate lady part after himself? Probably an oedipal thing.

The following information is lifted from the medical research group Mayo Clinic, as any other Google search result inevitably leads to that side of the internet. The Bartholin’s glands are located on the left and right side of the vaginal opening. These glands secrete fluids throughout the day that help lubricate the vagina, you know, to kill bad bacteria with its slightly lower pH level and help us enjoy all the fun stuff that most mammals like to do.

When the duct or opening of these tiny glands become obstructed, it causes the fluid to back up in the gland. The result is a relatively painless swelling called a Bartholin’s cyst. Omole, Simmons and Hacker in 2003 found that approximately two percent of women have the problem at some point in their life. However, if the fluid within the cyst becomes infected, a Bartholin’s abscess may form. This happened to me.

Trust me, I went through every conceivable scenario to try and pinpoint why this happened to me. But the three doctors I asked and all reputable sources have stated that once STIs and cancers are ruled out, there is no explanation for getting a Bartholin’s cyst. Of course you should always practise safe sex and maintain good hygiene habits like any normal person – these may (or may not) help to prevent further infection of a cyst and the formation of an abscess, but not the initial gland blockage. I just got unlucky apparently. -.-

Sometimes home treatment for the cyst is all you need (regular washes, warm baths for pain relief, antibiotics). In other cases, surgical drainage/marsupialisation of the Bartholin’s cyst is necessary…

This is my story.

Episode One

It all started the week after Professor Boyfriend came back from the Netherlands. Yes, timing hasn’t always been my strong suit. At some point, I noticed a searing pain with a correspondingly large lump and headed straight to the emergency department of my local hospital. After a poke around and yelling politely asking the emergency doctor to refrain from palpating any further, he confirmed that it was a cyst that would require drainage. Unfortunately the gynaecologist was only going to be in at 8:00am the next day, so they sent me on my way home with Endone and an instruction to fast for a surgery.

Professor Boyfriend picked me up the next day and after what felt like an eternity of waiting, hunger and walking through winding corridors, I saw the surgeon. To my horror she asked me, “where is it?” …It had shrunk to half the size of the lump I had presented with the day before. Relieved but annoyed by the whole fuss, I was discharged with a course of antibiotics (Keflex/cephalexin) to help the healing process along. Apart from some surrounding lymph node inflammation which subsided fairly quickly afterwards, I was back to my normal happy self. That is, until three weeks later I noticed that the lump was back.

Episode Two

Although not nearly the same size as before, it was harder and movable. I willed it to get better on its own for a three days and then headed to the GP again who prescribed me the same antibiotic as before. With no improvement after four more days, I was blasted with two more antibiotics concurrently (Cipro/ciprofloxacin and Flagyl/metronidazole) which left me with more side effects than you can imagine. Nauseous and drowsy with a churning stomach, I went to the GP where he told me that my body was now not coping with the antibiotics (“You have thrush now“) and that my lump had reached a “critical mass” so the antibiotic is unable to permeate through the wall of the cyst.

‘Thrush’? ‘Critical mass’? My confidence is SO HIGH rn, doc.

Off I went to the emergency room very early the next morning to get the blasted thing cut out. In the interim, paracetamol, ibuprofen, codeine were given for the pain and then stomach acid inhibitors (Nexium/esomeprazole) to stop the gastric pain from the antibiotics. Most of this was given intravenously because I needed an empty stomach for surgery in the afternoon.

Make sure you get the nurses to take their time with the esomeprazole through the cannula – my gag reflex was so sensitive that I spent following 30 minutes dry heaving my saliva.

A different gynaecologist saw me this time, since the regular one was lucky enough to be on holiday and not stare at ladies’ vulvas all day long. She told me that she was going to “incise” and then do a “marsupialisation”. What? Thats all I got from her. I asked for further clarification re: the procedure, aftercare, return to work. She rushed off and said she needed to find an anaesthetist. ANAESTHETIST? I was going under general anaesthetic?! I’ve never been knocked out for surgery in my life!

I moaned and started getting worked up about how shitty the whole situation was, but Professor Boyfriend miraculously managed to bring me back down to earth. This stuff isn’t fun; not only is it painful, we’re also talking about an area that is not an easy thing to speak about. I can make light of it now, but at least in my case, you can feel like a right nong getting your privates prodded and stared at by people all day in white coats. Trust me, despite everything, it helps to have someone close tell you that you’re still pretty cute to look at.

And nothing makes me feel sexier than the idea of having surgery in the lithotomy position.

Surgery and the day after

I don’t remember any of the surgery, thank god; I was transferred to a freezing steel table in a room with theatre seats above me like in Grey’s Anatomy (peep show, anyone?). A nurse squeezed my shoulder as I was knocked out following a very aggressive administration of IV benzos by the anaesthetist. This resulted in a pesky vein injury which was still healing 3 months later.

I woke up, mouth dry and disorientated, which is totally normal. I had a sore and hoarse voice for a couple of days after, likely because of being intubated during surgery. This is a problem if you work as a voice clinician …like I do.

Once they knew I wasn’t going to die post-op, they sent me back to the ward to recover fully. I was then told that the doctor ordered that I go home that day.

Like, a really, really big fat one.

I couldn’t even walk to the bathroom because I felt like I had razorblades in the diaper they had given me. WHO SENDS A 20-SOMETHING YEAR OLD PERSON HOME IN A DIAPER?! I also had a gauze packed into my surgical wound which would require removal the next morning. Furious and with the nurses from the ward on my side, the Nurse Unit Manager made sure a bed was free and she let me stay the night.

It was the job of one poor nurse the next morning to remove the gauze wound pack. I should probably note here that my tolerance for pain is moderate. Millimetre by millimetre, the pack came out. The pain was excruciating, like what I imagine the surgery would have felt like if I wasn’t anaesthetised. Sorry ladies, the truth – like wound packing – hurts. I couldn’t imagine doing it myself at home with no medical help. The pain was slightly worse afterwards at rest, but walking was a bit more tolerable.

What about after-care? I wouldn’t know because my surgeon didn’t say anything about it. The nurses suggested that I stage a sit-in until the doctor called me and told me what the hell I’m supposed to do with the wound infection risk that I am sitting on. Two hours of waiting later, the doctor called and said that I can go back to work as soon as I feel comfortable doing so. No sitting in baths, do not touch the wound, a gentle shower in the area (superficially you can use warm water from a shower head on low intensity), do not use products like soap or creams and sex is fine again in 4-5 weeks.

Ladies, just a quick tip I learnt; pads will feel like sandpaper. Between your pad and the wound, non-woven combines (9x20cms) are the way to go to avoid nasty friction.

Recovery

The aftermath was a pain in the butt (not quite my butt, but you get the picture).

For the two weeks following, I did all the right things (and more). I didn’t wash with harsh products. In fact, I knew that just water was quite harsh on my skin generally, so I went and got a sinus wash with an irrigation bottle to gently wash the outside with a solution that wasn’t harsh on my skin. This was a game changer.

However, I still couldn’t lift my anxiety. I had a sharp pain every time I would do a kegel-like movement around the site and I appeared to have a small enlarged lymph node appear. This went on for a month.

GP said it was fine, it will pass. Gyno #1 said it was fine, it will pass. Gyno #2 (the one who did my surgery) had a feel and said my pelvic floor muscles were in overdrive. I had hypertonicity and anxiety following surgical trauma and now I needed to retrain my body to relax and that everything was fine again – no cyst, no scar, no worries.

She suggested a pelvic floor physiotherapist (job of the year lel) but I kindly opted out – surely this was mind over matter? Professor Boyfriend and I were about to embark on a wonderful trip around Eastern Europe and I had to refocus. I couldn’t spend five weeks worrying about muscle spasms. How boring that would be.

So I took time off work. I went swimming a lot. I listened to music. I completed writing my article for publication.

Things finally stopped weighing me down.

Debrief

Why did I feel compelled to write this? Because I got completely conflicting information on presentation, management, surgery and aftercare. I hope this helps people out there who (wrongfully) consult Dr. Google and come across this page.

Look at this. How do you feel? Good?
Great, now that we’re in a good mood, let’s get offensive. I’ll keep it short and sweet.

You guys are grand.

But this post [edit: this post has now been hidden] got quite a bit of traffic and has sent me into a exhausting salad spinner of crap. Not only with those who were mentioned… But people who have read it and disagree with my choices.

I love my contact page. It is a place where I have had invitations to write for online publications (#blessed #heymamamia), where I feel connected to people from all around the world and where people can tell me what they think – honestly and without filter – mostly due to the ability to stay anonymous.

I’ll cut right to the chase: One classy lady called me a slutbag. Setting aside my loathing of the word ‘slut’, I could delve endlessly into questions about what this actually means (A bag made of sluts? A bag containing sluts? Under-eye circles?) but really, this is the kind of chick that is the root cause of why we cannot have nice things. Can’t say I’ll own that title or even remotely agree with it, but there are certainly worse things on this earth that I could be called.

At least I don’t like fava beans…

I don’t think I’ll ever disable the anonymous contact page, simply because I’ve struck up fabulous conversations in the past with those brave enough to use it. Who said pen pals are dead?

Death Row pen pals don’t count.

I won’t lie, it was refreshing to get a view on the post that wasn’t “ERMERGERD LIL SO FUNNY I WISH I WAS YOU LEL SO LUCKY”. Because although my ego got a fabulous stroking, I felt like some completely missed the point of the post.
Let me reiterate: I felt miserable (pretty much) that entire week.

I get it; maybe I shouldn’t have posted it. But at the same time, I’m pretty proud that I was brutally honest – on and off the internet. Being honest and being a dick is – sadly – not mutually exclusive. I was downright sordid with the details and consequently caused some butthurt.

However, when the moment comes where I think about changing the way I am, or what I want to write, I simply think of the following:

“I am only resolved to act in that manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without reference to you, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me.” Elizabeth Bennett (Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen)

But perhaps with less usage of the comma, I say this:
I’m not Nutella. It’s not my job to make everybody happy.

Two hours ago, I was in a rush to get to the gym. I forgot my towel, a friend was waiting for me and my hair was still wet. I was driving needlessly fast when I heard 6 words on the news radio; ‘Myuran Sukumaran and Andrew Chan executed’.

Myuran’s mother’s cries for mercy from last night kept reverberating in my head. I pulled over, called my friend to cancel, did a U-turn straight home and started writing.

I don’t know these men, I don’t know their families and I most certainly don’t know anything about their struggles. But what I do know is that I’ve lost a little bit of faith in the ability of people to be compassionate, show mercy and have common sense.

In regards to compassion and mercy, the Indonesian government did everything in their power to torture two young men and dangle their stupid mistake in front of their faces for 10 years. It has been said before elsewhere and I’ll say it here – what they did was undoubtedly unforgivable by endangering lives with the gross amounts of drugs being smuggled into the country. But to then execute them a decade after the fact – when they were both in their 30s, fully rehabilitated and being positive role models in Kerobokan (by more than one account), is absolutely astonishing to me.

Aristotle said more than two thousand years ago, “The rule of law is better than that of any individual”. This can be interpreted in many ways… I’ll give you two. On one hand, you would think it implies that everyone is subject to the same law – citizens, lawmakers, royalty, Miley Cyrus. Not only that, but the expectation is that the rule of law is fair and universal, but sadly Indonesia’s officials don’t own a law textbook. Indonesians expect clemency for their citizens overseas all the time. Indonesia cannot expect clemency for its citizens if they do not grant it to citizens of other countries. It’s plain and simple. What point were they trying to prove? A societal drug problem will not be fixed by shooting foreigners in the chest.

To Australia; where is your common sense? Executions for even the smallest drug offences in Indonesia have been a publicised fact. A fact, that was known well before the AFP tip-off to the Indonesian government in 2005. How dare officials disclose information that could lead to the execution of Australians overseas where an impartial, less barbaric justice system such as ours cannot be afforded to them?

Australians, I’m not done. The Save our boys Mr Abbott video* has left me reeling – placing the blame squarely on Mr. Abbott. Clearly, I’m not a fan of his. At all. I love that I live in a democracy where I can tweet at my leader and tell him that he’ll never be my Minister for Women or that the size of his ears make me uncomfortable. But shockingly, I’m about to stick up for him and Julie Bishop. Celebrities left, right and centre (politically and geographically) had been telling them to bear responsibility for saving those two lives. Saying ‘show some balls!’ and ‘fly to Indonesia!’ was taking it five steps too far. The Australian government (one that was not involved in the tip off, might I add) have gone above and beyond to provide legal counsel and advocacy for these men. Ms. Bishop said it best. “Clearly, if travelling to Indonesia would make a difference, we would have gone there.”

As an aside, how on earth do we expect Indonesia to take anything we protest seriously? They will always remember Australians as the ones who cheered on (or approved by their silence) as they executed the Bali bombers 2008.

The relationship between Indonesia and Australia is a strange but necessary one. In the grand scheme of things, my opinion and a blog post mean nothing. But that relationship is one I will not be contributing to during my break in August. Sorry (not sorry) Bali, I’m looking elsewhere.

Vale, Myuran and Andrew.

~Lil

The header photo is of Myuran Sukumaran’s final painting on death row; the Indonesian Flag.

Or; ‘An Ode to Lori Borgman‘NB: Anti-vaxxers, I guarantee that you will not like the following. Because, you know, I make informed decisions based on empirical evidence.
This is my manifesto.

Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense. Sense’s health began to deteriorate quickly after the introduction of denim pantsuits and the publication of Wakefield‘s 1998 article. The following is a three part obituary for our dear friend and his sad, slow, painful demise. Lets begin.

I recently went to a personal development conference
(because, yes, sometimes I like to develop personally). After a long day of making amazing progress and getting emotional energy sucked out of me by ridiculously happy people, all I wanted to do was go to the lunch hall to eat hummus on bread (because carbscarbsgimmecarbs). You couldn’t wipe the grin off my face until an aromatic staff member (henceforth known as Patchouli) mentioned ‘measles outbreak’, ‘vaccines’ and ‘autism link’ in the same sentence. Dammit, Patchouli.

You see, like Common Sense, I often bump into people I don’t get along with. Sometimes you have to take Sense’s example and bite your tongue so that you and others can enjoy the meal. But sometimes you just can’t help yourself. I told Patchouli that Wakefield was funded to do his research by lawyers who had represented parents in lawsuits against vaccine-producing pharmaceutical companies without stating any conflict of interest. Patchouli looked like I had killed the last remaining South African white rhino. Her nostril-widening, blood pressure elevating response was was akin to: “HOW DO YOU KNOW? DO YOU EVEN SCIENCE BRO?”.

Yes, yes I do. Been rockin’ labcoats, mice and John Howard eyebrows since 2006.

Thankfully, no hummus wrap was harmed in my vice grip. Conveniently another staff member appeased her, so… I left it. Sometimes you have to pick your battles; Common Sense would have wanted me to.

Part II: Correlation Does Not Imply Causation
(Or, ‘Check A 16 Year Old’s Statistics Homework’)

Common Sense lost his will to live when parents started thinking that a strong (and deranged) link exists between vaccinations and autism.

I can take anything (ANYTHING!) that has had a steadily growing trend over the last three decades and use that to play a dodgy blame game. In fact, as much as it pains me to reproduce the following table (below left) on my blog, I promise it is to make a point:

HEADLINE: ‘Pricey crops cause Autism’ …Oops, I may have started something. I adapted this image from here and here. Caution: Reading the latter link may lower your IQ. You have been forewarned.

Here’s where I’m grateful that I payed attention to high school maths and research/stats class in first, second and third year university. If I couldn’t recite the following off by heart, I’d be a disgrace to my physicist father and educator mother.
There are three (general) requirements to infer a causal relationship:1. A statistically significant relationship between variables.2. The causal variable occurred before the other variable.3. There are no other factors that could account for the cause.

The problem is, we get so excited when we fulfil the first criteria that we forget or don’t even bother to check for the others. Maybe its convenient, or more believably, a way to get rich quick. Governments and financial institutions notoriously manipulate data by using seasonal adjustment, latent drivers, etc. What is even more horrific is that this trend is insidiously creeping into systems surrounding healthcare worldwide. And at the expense of who? My generation’s future offspring?

I can’t dismiss the rise of autism diagnoses over the years… Naturally we have to wonder if there is a real threat of increased cases or is it a case of semantics? But think about it this way; according to the DSM, kids 25 years ago that would now be diagnosed with autism were just regarded as the slow or weird kids. They were never given the opportunity to be supported, to express themselves or prove to people that they were capable of anything extraordinary.

Graphs and visual rhetoric in general have always been incredibly persuasive tools, which is why thankfully I was taught to always be skeptical (not cynical!) of any kind of data put in front of me. Throughout time I like to think that Common Sense would have liked to see his apples compared to apples; not apples compared to bullshit.

As if the social stigma around autism wasn’t bad enough, the message surrounding the anti-vax movement unconscionably puts having a suffering (possibly dead) kid as a preference to a live healthy one that may need more care and understanding. Can you believe what message that sends to young people with autism or even those who have grown to thrive and find success in society today?

Oh, but it gets worse. People who refuse to get the polio vaccine and use the argument ‘we just want to see our chemical-less kids run free, like in the old days’ need to be institutionalised… or simply pick up a book on 20th century history. Because, of course, nothing said ‘fun!’ like children with respiratory failure in the 1950’s. How many pleas for reason do we need to hear? For goodness sake, this was a time when echoes of children saying “thank you for the new dress mummy, but I don’t think it’ll fit over my iron lung” may not have been as farfetched as you think.

See this? Epidemics actually used to be a thing. A thing that parents dreaded.

What about the cases of the immunocompromised who get sick that can’t be vaccinated? You don’t just vaccinate for your children’s safety, you do it because it is the socially responsible thing to do. Herd immunity is the only way to reduce the probability that a vulnerable individual will come into contact with an infection. The point isn’t to protect the unfortunate children of uneducated morons; it is to protect those most vulnerable. Its even worse when the morons ARE educated…

And a word about the types of people that contribute to this debate. Just because a person has an opinion and a social media account does not mean they have the right to spread unsubstantiated lies. A mommy blog here on WordPress (that I refuse to link to) has the tagline; ‘because knowledge is the key to making informed decisions for your family’.
But really, all I see is ‘I’m giving you my non-expert opinion and ignoring my paediatrician’. The author of this blog wants to kill my future children whilst giving me a fabulous sleeping schedule for a restless baby.

I’ll leave you with this little gem which came from the mind of a smart lady of my acquaintance:If you or someone you may know doesn’t know the difference between mitosis and meiosis, sit the heck down and shut your mouth. – S. S.

To that, I say:

And let me pre-empt a bully (or five) by saying that no, I do not know what it is like to have children and to take care of them. But thanks to Common Sense, I use evidence based practice and know not to fill a goldfish bowl with orange juice.

Ladies and gentleman, sadly Common Sense is survived by his three wicked cousins; I’m a Victim, I’ll See You In Court and TMZ. Not many attended Common Sense’s funeral, because perhaps not many people realised he was gone.

So. It’s Midsumma here in Melbourne and Stephen Fry got married this week. This calls for a celebration. If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m a fairly open, liberal-minded individual with a penchant for gin and tonic and German football players.

Making a post about homophobia is hardly controversial – unlike getting a neck tattoo. Apart from the two events I mentioned above, a prompt for this post was that a ol’ good friend of mine came out a year ago yesterday. This took some guts but also the loss of his family and a home due to his parents’ religious beliefs. But he’s extremely happy being true to himself and living with his partner. Although he half-heartedly jokes around when seeing happy nuclear families on the street, to him nothing beats the fact that he excels at being inherently fabulous and has double the wardrobe.

I have a few friends that say that they are religious and have gay friends but would hate for their future children to come out as being such. Unfortunately for my children they will have it far worse. I don’t care if they are straight, gay, French or accountants – they better give me grandchildren. I’d be the greatest granny on the planet and no offspring of mine will deprive me of the opportunity to embarrass them in front of their progeny.

Frick? Flask? Frank? Frock?

Now, during my year of trying to find spirituality, I’ve done a fair share of reading of holy books. Old Leviticus has a whole lot to say on the subject. Please correct me if I’m wrong, but last time I checked, he also deplored the consumption of pork, shrimp and other shellfish. He also restricted shaving your beard, cutting hair and wearing clothes made of more than one type of material.

That purple wool-blend monster had ‘sinner’ written all over him.

So to the politicians and Leviticus Ecclesiasticus Meticulous Mucus Incubus Gonococcus Society (or LEMMInGS for short – because all organised hate groups need to have a kitschy name); unless you live by ALL of these biblical practices, you cannot possibly use old bible verses as an excuse to make vicious comments about people loving each other, no matter who they may be.

In short ladies and gents, it’s much healthier for you and society to just come right out and say that bum sex irks you. I’m looking at you Putin.